


singing like a siren

by MistressEast



Series: After Hours at Leblanc [6]
Category: Persona 5
Genre: Aftercare, Akira's dick gets stepped on idk what thats called, Anal Sex, Bad BDSM Etiquette, Consensual Non-Consent, Established Relationship, Forced Oral Sex, Goro is still on bottom but he's the aggressor, Gunplay, Handcuffs, M/M, Power Imbalance, Rape Roleplay, Riding, Sub Drop, Topping from the Bottom, Verbal Humiliation, bottom!Goro, everyone is okay and everything was completely consensual, power dynamics switch partway through details in authors note, roleplay based on a real event that happened to them, scene gone slightly wrong, top!Akira, top/dom drop, yes im doing it again buckle up, you liked it and now you get Even More
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-02
Updated: 2020-06-02
Packaged: 2021-03-04 01:40:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,180
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24505570
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MistressEast/pseuds/MistressEast
Summary: “You think being desired by criminal trash like you isflattering?” Akechi laughs, high and mean, before slamming his hand against the table with a loudbang. “Don’t be conceited,” he spits.Akira, unmoved by the violent noise, glares at Akechi silently, mind whirring.Aim unwavering, Akechi straightens up. “I’m going to give you one chance,” he says placidly. “If you perform well, I’ll think about not blowing your brains out.”
Relationships: Akechi Goro/Kurusu Akira
Series: After Hours at Leblanc [6]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1714768
Comments: 16
Kudos: 276





	singing like a siren

**Author's Note:**

> READ THE TAGS!! this is another noncon roleplay and you NEED to check the tags if you're at all sensitive to this stuff. again, i will put a more detailed summary in the end notes and i encourage you to check that as well bc this piece is arguably even rougher than the last one.
> 
> oh boy here we go again. when i finished the previous part in this series, i couldn't stop thinking about how Goro deserved a turn, and i wanted to do something that expanded on how this au played out, and somehow...this happened.... it also happens to be Goro's birthday when I'm posting this! happy birthday!!
> 
> a few notes: this roleplay deals with what happened between Goro and Akira in the interrogation room in this no-persona au and i've taken some liberties lmao, including doing away with the "security guard" so don't worry about him. additionally, the scene gets very personal and the aftercare is very complicated. this fic features something you should NEVER do in BDSM and i'll get more into that downstairs. but even though it gets a little dicey, at no point is anything non-consensual.
> 
> okay that's enough for now. despite all that hand-wringing, i hope you enjoy!

The table is old wood. Sturdy but stained. Absently, Akira thinks that it’s an odd piece to find in an austere, utilitarian interrogation room tucked into the depths of the Tokyo Police Department, but he’s not really in a position to judge the decor.

He gives another fruitless tug to the handcuffs binding his wrists together behind the chair. They rattle, the hard metal cutting into his skin, but don’t give. Breaking out of his cuffs would probably just make his situation worse, to be honest, but he has the sinking feeling that if he doesn’t get out now, he may never get out at all.

As though in response to his fatalistic thought, the door clicks. Akira’s heart jumps as it swings open then creaks shut. The lamp on the table doesn’t illuminate far enough for him to make out more than a slim, indistinct figure, but his ears ring with soft, unhurried footsteps.

A polished loafer enters the pool of light, bringing a long leg, then another, clad in pressed slacks. Akira’s eyes travel up as the person steps into view, taking in the smart, double-breasted uniform blazer, the familiar striped tie, and above that—

“Kurusu-kun,” Akechi greets pleasantly, smiling. “I’m glad you don’t look too worse for wear.”

Akira doesn’t respond, regarding Akechi warily. He knew this was coming, but still—seeing the boy he’d come to consider his friend standing on the other side of the table sends a sharp spike of anger through him.

“This is quite the situation you’ve found yourself in,” Akechi continues. “Though, I suppose it was inevitable.”

“You saw to that,” Akira says quietly.

Akechi tilts his head, honey brown hair swaying, and his eyes glint in the yellowish light of the lamp. “Just doing my job, Kurusu-kun.”

Akira wants to ask if his _job_ includes lying his way into a group of teenagers and tricking them into treating him like a friend, while knowing all along that he was going to sell them out, but he bites the words back, watching Akechi stonily.

“You’ll be glad to know your friends all evaded arrest,” Akechi says, folding his hands in front of himself. “And the lawyers are planning to pin everything on you.” He waits, and when Akira doesn’t respond, he steps forward, coming to the edge of the table. “Nothing to say to that?”

“Is that enough for you?” Akira asks.

Akechi blinks. “What?”

“You wanted to catch the phantom thieves, but all you got was one delinquent.” Akira rattles his cuffs illustratively and Akechi’s eyes dart down to his bound arms. “Everyone knows I didn’t work alone. Won’t this damage your reputation?”

“You act as if they’ve gotten away,” Akechi sneers. “I have plenty of evidence tying the others to the cases as well. I could bring them in at any time.”

“Will you?”

“That’s—” Akechi’s eye twitches and Akira hears the leather of his gloves creak as he clenches his hands together. “Irrelevant.”

Akira waits as Akechi gathers himself.

“And that’s not the matter at hand,” Akechi says, hitching his smile back up.

“Which would be?”

“Kurusu-kun, I know you’re smart enough to understand your situation. You’ve made some very powerful people very angry, and they won’t be satisfied at seeing you go to prison.”

“So?”

“One of them is me.” Akechi reaches behind himself and withdraws a gun. The metal glints dully in the light as Akechi levels it at Akira’s head from across the table, grip steady. “Pretty unfortunate, huh?”

Akira regards the gun with a non-zero amount of trepidation. “So you’re going to kill me?”

“That’s the plan,” Akechi smiles. “Unless, of course...you can persuade me otherwise.”

Akira quirks an eyebrow. “What?”

“Don’t play dumb, Kurusu-kun. I’ve seen the way you look at me.”

A thrill runs through Akira, sweat instantly prickling at his hairline. “What are you talking about?”

“It’s kind of sad actually,” Akechi simpers. “I really didn’t mean to make you fall for me. Or—” he clicks his tongue. “It’s not really love, is it? You’re a teenage boy, after all. I suppose any pretty person in your radius was just as likely to catch your attention. You just got _really_ unlucky.”

“Don’t flatter yourself,” Akira snaps.

“You think being desired by criminal trash like you is _flattering_?” Akechi laughs, high and mean, before slamming his hand against the table with a loud _bang_. “Don’t be conceited,” he spits.

Akira, unmoved by the violent noise, glares at Akechi silently, mind whirring.

Aim unwavering, Akechi straightens up. “I’m going to give you one chance,” he says placidly. “If you perform well, I’ll think about not blowing your brains out.”

“How gracious.”

“Considering how much easier everything would be if you were dead, it really is.” Trailing one hand along the top of the wood, Akechi rounds the table with smooth steps, keeping the gun trained unerringly on Akira’s face.

Akira watches him approach, like prey watching a tiger pace closer and closer, heart jumping higher in his throat with each step.

“It’s a good deal.” Akechi pauses beside him and uses the muzzle of the gun to tip Akira’s head up, forcing Akira to maintain eye contact. Akira can feel the hard, cold metal digging into his chin. “And it’s not like you’re really in a position to refuse.”

“You’re sick,” Akira mutters.

Akechi’s eyes flash with something like genuine mirth. “I knew that already, Kurusu-kun.” With an easy hop, Akechi situates himself on the edge of the table right in front of Akira. He crosses his legs demurely, feet hanging inches from Akira’s plaid-covered shins. “Now—” his free hand cups Akira’s jaw, the leather cool against his skin. “How about a little practice?”

Before Akira can react, Akechi digs his fingers into the sides of his face, forcing his mouth open, and pushes the cold, unyielding muzzle of the gun past his teeth with a jarring clack. Akira almost gags at the sudden intrusion.

“I’m sure I don’t need to tell you to be careful.” Akechi’s thumb caresses the safety and a bolt of fear creeps down Akira’s spine.

There’s a loaded gun in his mouth, controlled by someone who’s already professed a desire to kill him. Akechi shoves the barrel a little deeper and Akira’s heart throbs in his ears. One wrong move and Akechi will pull the trigger, Akira has no doubt about that. It’s in the playful glint of Akechi’s eyes, the surety of his grip. Akira has no choice but to play along.

“Go on, then,” Akechi says. “Show me you want me to spare your life.”

Glaring up at Akechi, Akira takes a reedy breath in through his nose and cautiously darts his tongue along the hard metal. It tastes vaguely of gunpowder, sending another ripple of fear through him. Pushing through it, Akira closes his lips around the unyielding muzzle, sucking hesitantly.

Akechi cocks his head, watching him intently. The fingers on his jaw flex, dragging his mouth open wider so that Akechi can feed another few inches inside. A choked noise escapes Akira’s throat and he squeezes his eyes shut, fists clenching behind his back.

“That’s better,” Akechi croons. “I always knew your mouth was more suited to this than spewing that delusional drivel about _justice_ and _friendship_.” He pulls the gun out slightly before pushing it back in, even deeper than before.

Akira forces his throat to relax, blinking open teary eyes to see Akechi smiling down at him, a hard edge behind the pleasant tilt of his lips.

“Honestly, it always made me nauseous.” Slicked with his saliva, the gun slides more smoothly along Akira’s tongue when Akechi thrusts in and out, steadily increasing his speed. “Your righteousness. Your childish idealism. I work for _years_ to get as close as I am to true justice, and you think you can just stumble in with a few costumed teenage vigilantes and do _better_?” The barrel scrapes loudly against Akira’s bottom teeth as Akechi tightens his grip, pressing harder into Akira’s cheeks. “ _Pathetic_.”

The obstruction in his mouth is making it impossible for Akira to swallow properly, and when Akechi drags the gun almost all the way out, he feels drool drip from the corner of his lips, running down his chin. He notices that the dark barrel is glistening with spit as well, before Akechi drives it back inside. This time, he twists it, grinding the hard tip against Akira’s tongue, and Akira fights not to gag, tears stinging at his eyes.

“Is this at all what you imagined?” Akechi asks, still smiling around bared teeth. “Every time you looked at me indecently? Were you thinking about being at my mercy like this? Or maybe you wanted it the other way around—pinning me down and having your way with me?”

Akira makes a helpless moaning noise around the barrel.

“Or was your head full of useless thoughts about _dating_ and _relationships_?” Akechi snickers disdainfully. “Surely not. Even you had to know that _this_ is all we could ever be.”

With one last cruel shove, Akechi draws the gun out completely, strings of saliva stretching between Akira’s lips and the tip before breaking, and Akira gasps raggedly. He swallows past the ache growing at the back of his throat.

“That’s enough practice.” Akechi releases Akira’s jaw and Akira lets his head drop, breathing heavily.

In his periphery, Akechi’s long legs uncross, spreading on either side of him. The sharp sound of a zipper reaches his ears, followed by a cottony rustle, and then there are fingers in his hair, yanking his head back up.

“I’m sure I don’t have to warn you about what will happen if you misbehave.” Akechi gestures illustratively with the gun, still shining with spit and once again pointing at Akira’s face. When Akira doesn’t respond, he releases Akira’s hair and wraps his hand around his exposed erection. Against his will, Akira’s eyes are magnetized to the flushed and leaking length, the dusky tip poking out from the dark circle of Akechi’s leather glove, and, horrifyingly, he feels his own cock stir at the sight. “Go on, then.”

Angling a steely look up at Akechi, Akira forces himself to lean forward until his lips are hovering over the tip. The handcuffs rattle with the motion and Akira’s shoulders protest the unnatural position, but the barrel nudging against his temple makes that seem unimportant. Taking a sharp breath in through his nose, Akira is met with the heady scent of arousal. He can’t deny that he has imagined this—not this horrible situation, but how many times have his most private thoughts wandered into how Akechi might smell, might taste under his tongue? But this was never how he wanted to find out that Akechi smells warm and clean, with the slightest hint of floral soap, or that his cock flushes more pink than red, or that his breath hitches when Akira licks firmly over his slit—

Akechi removes his hand from his cock and fists it back in Akira’s hair, pushing him down until Akira has no choice but to part his lips and take the first few inches into his mouth. The obscene weight on his tongue shoots heat right to his crotch and Akira slams his eyes shut, breathing through his nose as Akechi guides him farther down without pausing. When Akira feels the blunt head brushing the back of his throat, he fights down his gag reflex again.

“Perfect,” Akechi coos. “Just keep those fangs to yourself, cat burglar.” Before Akira can properly adjust to the cock filling his mouth, Akechi drags his head off, then on again, ramming himself back inside, even deeper than before.

Akira chokes, eyes flying open, and his hands flex uselessly behind his back. Ignoring him, Akechi repeats the action, pulling Akira’s head back slowly, forcing Akira to feel each inch of his slick cock leaving his mouth. This time when he thrusts back in, he holds Akira’s head down, pressing Akira’s nose into the fabric of his still-buttoned blazer, and hums. Akira works desperately to relax his throat around the intrusion, breath stuttering.

“You’re surprisingly good at this, Kurusu-kun.” Akechi pulls him up, then pushes him back down, smoother now that his length is slicked with Akira’s saliva. “Maybe we should have tried this before, after all. I won’t say the thought never crossed my mind.” His legs spread wider around Akira’s shoulders, and as Akira pulls back, he sees one of Akechi’s feet lift to brace against the edge of his chair. The hand holding the gun braces behind Akechi on the table with a muted _clack_. “Out of all of your cohorts, you’re admittedly the only one I could stomach the possibility with.” Using the new leverage, Akechi tilts his hips into the repeated motions, forcing his cock even deeper into Akira’s mouth. All Akira can do is try to breathe around the intrusion, letting Akechi fuck in and out of his mouth at a steadily increasing speed.

“Maybe I could have thrown you a bone,” Akechi continues, sounding a little winded. “Let you suck me off in that filthy attic. You would have begged me for it, right?”

A strangled moan tears out of Akira’s throat as more heat oozes down his spine and pools in his gut. Each rough thrust of Akechi’s cock sends sparks flashing through him until he can feel his own cock pressing uncomfortably against his fly. His jaw burns and each slam knocks his thoughts more and more out of focus.

“Hm?” Akechi’s pace falters and he pauses, keeping Akira half-on his length as Akira feels more than sees his leg shift. “Are you serious?”

A hard sole grinds suddenly against his groin and Akira flinches, groaning pitifully around Akechi’s cock.

“You’re actually getting off on this?” Akechi presses down harder as he simultaneously yanks Akira completely forward, cutting off his choked gasp. “God, that’s pathetic. I almost feel sorry for you.”

Another cruel twist of Akechi’s ankle shoots heat from Akira’s traitorous dick right into his head. Akira can feel sweat gathering at his temples and along his spine, heart racing. His numbing jaw trembles from the effort to keep his teeth from scraping Akechi’s cock, and he can distantly hear the handcuffs bumping the back of the chair as his arms strain.

Akechi laughs breathlessly and twists his fingers harder into Akira’s hair, lifting him completely off. Akira sucks in a ragged breath and grunts as he’s unceremoniously tossed back against the chair. Blinking through tears, he meets Akechi’s gleeful, flushed expression before wincing as the foot on his crotch pushes down mercilessly.

“I don’t know if this means you’re really into me, or—” Akechi snakes his foot up to dig the edge of his heel into Akira’s erection, “—you’re just a filthy degenerate.”

Akira can barely think through the pain and pleasure signals warring inside him, the excruciating cut of Akechi’s shoe clashing with the delicious pressure against his straining cock.

“Well, whichever one it is, I guess it doesn’t matter.” Akechi lifts his head, eyeing Akira down his nose as one might eye a squirming dissection specimen. He eases his foot back until his toe is just brushing the bulge in Akira’s pants, then drags the lip of his loafer deliberately up the rigid outline.

Akira jolts, stomach muscles contracting as a pitiful moan falls from his stinging lips.

“That’s good,” Akechi praises, repeating the action and making Akira shudder. “This really is a good look on you, Kurusu-kun. Certainly keeps your smart mouth occupied.”

Panting, Akira shoots him the most furious look he can muster.

“Cute.” Akechi wiggles the gun. “But don’t forget your position.” With one last cruel grind, Akechi finally removes his foot and Akira sags in relief, chin hitting his chest. “Sit tight for a second.”

Staring blankly at his lap, Akira distantly hears Akechi slide off the table, then the rustle of clothing and the faint clink of a belt. When he lifts his head, brows furrowed, he’s met with the sight of Akechi stepping out of his slacks and underwear, gloved hands working at the buttons on his blazer. “What—?”

Cutting him an almost coy look, Akechi shrugs the blazer off, leaving him in nothing but his white button-up, which skims the tops of his pale thighs, hiding his erection, and his striped tie, still knotted primly around his neck. “Get a good look, Kurusu-kun,” he smiles, gathering his clothes and laying them neatly on the table. “Because I’m about to make all your dreams come true.”

Unable to stop himself, Akira stares at the exposed skin, tracing the long, milky lines of Akechi’s legs as Akechi moves to stand in front of him, until the gloved hand in his hair drags his head up. Akechi’s other hand reaches down and Akira flinches instinctively.

Akechi pauses for a beat, then straightens up and moves his hands to frame Akira’s face, keeping Akira’s eyes on him. “Ready to give up?” he asks quietly.

Akira’s gaze darts to the gun now lying on the table right behind Akechi, within easy reach, then back to Akechi’s half-shadowed face. “Fuck you.”

Akechi’s answering laugh is high and tinted with mania. “Have it your way, then.” He grabs Akira by the jaw and reaches down, ungently ripping his fly open before Akira can react.

“Stop, don’t—” The warm leather around his aching cock pitches Akira’s protest into a broken keen as Akechi frees his length completely.

“No, no, you don’t want me to stop,” Akechi admonishes, shaking his face slightly. “You’ve been thinking about this, all along, haven’t you?” In one fluid motion, Akechi swings his leg over Akira’s lap, shifting to grip the back of the chair over Akira’s shoulder and releasing Akira’s length. “Think of it as your last meal.”

“I thought this was all to keep you from killing me,” Akira grits out.

Akechi smiles down at him, his hair falling in a curtain around his face, reaching behind himself to guide Akira’s painfully erect cock into a better position. “Even if you leave this room without a bullet in your head, the people you’ve pissed off won’t let you live long.” He bites his lip in concentration and Akira feels his cockhead nudge the tight muscle of his entrance. “Honestly, you’d probably be better off letting me do it. I shudder to think that that mafia thug will have his people do to you.”

Akira clenches his fists, cuffs rattling, as Akechi sinks down with intention. The tip of his cock breaches the slick ring with almost no resistance and Akira gasps.

“You prepared for this,” he accuses, narrowing his eyes.

Akechi shrugs one shoulder. “Well, it’s not like you were going to refuse me, right? And even if you did—” he grabs Akira’s trapped arm, digging his fingers into Akira’s bicep, “—what could you do to stop me?”

Rage thunders through him, nearly eclipsing the coiling heat, and Akira bites back an animalistic growl. Akechi is right. Akira is immobile and Akechi can reclaim his weapon at any moment. All Akira can do is grit his teeth as Akechi drops farther onto his cock. His ass is already slick and his walls part easily around Akira’s length. Akira presses his lips together to keep the whine crawling up his throat from escaping.

Akechi breathes out hard, lowering himself steadily until he’s sitting in Akira’s lap, legs spread around Akira’s hips, and Akira is fully sheathed inside. “ _Hah_ —not bad, Kurusu-kun,” Akechi huffs, cheeks dusted pink. This close, Akira can make out the faintest spray of freckles over his nose. Pretty out of season for December. “What do you think?” He rolls his hips sinuously, grinding Akira even deeper, and Akira hisses. “Is it everything you imagined?”

The pressure building in Akira’s gut grips him tighter, veins of scorching pleasure creeping through his limbs. His toes curl in his shoes and it takes all of his self restraint not to fuck up into the wet, clinging heat of Akechi’s ass.

“Well?” Akechi grinds down again, fisting one hand in Akira’s hair, and Akira’s scalp twinges almost familiarly at the rough treatment. “ _Is it?”_

Even with whatever preparation Akechi did, it’s still a lot all at once, and Akira’s head swims from the onslaught of sensation—the delicious clench of Akechi around him, the burn of not enough lube, the painful tugging of his hair, the weight of Akechi balanced on his thighs, the sight of Akechi’s neck just inches from him face—groaning, Akira screws his eyes shut.

“Speechless, hm?” Akechi untangles his fingers from Akira’s hair and plants both hands on Akira’s shoulders, pushing down to lift himself up a few inches. “Fine.”

He slams back down and Akira swallows a cry, throwing his head back.

“I assume—you pictured something a little more vanilla, hm?” Akechi pulls off again before immediately sinking down. The drag against Akira’s pulsing cock is almost too much and Akira buries his teeth in his bottom lip, abdomen tensing. “Maybe a tender adolescent exploration? Or an awkward fumble in the dark?” He picks up the pace, bouncing rhythmically on Akira’s lap, hands clamped on Akira’s shoulders. “Did you dream about it? Did you fantasize about—how I’d look on your cock? Or was that too vulgar? Did you—”

“I sure as hell fantasized about shutting your lying little mouth,” Akira snaps, prying his eyes open to glare up at Akechi.

Akechi smirks, though the effect is dampened somewhat by the sweat darkening his hairline, the blush creeping down his neck, the disarray of his hair. “That’s not a very nice thing for a hero of justice to say.” He rocks down firmly and groans, walls fluttering around Akira. “Is that how it was, then? Just vindictive lust? Nothing else?”

“Akechi—” Akira gasps, sparks dancing behind his eyes.

“Since the second we met, you’ve wanted me—just for this—”

“No—”

“Don’t deny it—I know, remember? I saw—how you looked at me—” Akechi slams down harder, filling himself to the hilt over and over while Akira can only writhe beneath him, “—like you wanted to eat me alive—”

“ _Akechi—”_ Akira can’t resist the way his hips twitch up, rolling in time with Akechi’s movements. The handcuffs clank and scrape against the back of the chair as his arms shake with tension.

“—just wanted to use me—” Akechi continues mindlessly, sly smile gone as he pants above Akira, “—like everyone else—”

“ _No_ —”

“How do _you_ like being used, K—Kurusu-kun?” Grasping fingers work their way back into Akira’s hair, pulling sharply, and Akira tenses, gritting his teeth. “Huh? How does it feel?”

“God _damn it_ , Akechi—”

“And then I’ll toss you aside, just like—”

A wordless shout rips out of Akira’s throat and he lurches forward on instinct, bound arms flexing as heat spirals outward from where they’re connected—

* * *

—Akira’s arms suddenly snap apart, sending him reeling forward, and Goro jostles in his lap, grabbing him by the shoulders to steady them both.

“What the—” Goro breaks off as Akira brings his hands up and they stare together at the broken cuffs dangling from his wrists.

“Uh—” Akira cuts his eyes to Goro.

His boyfriend, mouth slack and still sitting on his cock, glances between the cuffs and Akira’s face, breathing hard. “Huh.”

“Do you—want to—?”

Goro shakes his head. “Keep going.”

“You sure?”

“If you’re sure.”

Quirking a sly smile, Akira seizes Goro around the waist. “In that case—”

* * *

Akira surges upward before Akechi can react, rising on stiff legs and slamming Akechi’s back against the table.

“ _Fuck—_ ” Akechi scrambles for the gun, but Akira knocks it away. It clatters noisily to the ground, safely out of Akechi’s furious reach, and Akira catches Akechi’s outstretched wrist, wrenching it over his head on the table.

“What were you saying?” Akira pants. “Something about using me?”

“Bastard,” Akechi hisses, clawing at the fabric of Akira’s jacket until Akira seizes that hand as well and pins it to join his other. “I’m going to fucking kill you!”

“Go for it—” Akira traps both of Akechi’s twisting wrists in one hand and hooks his fingers into the knot of Akechi’s tie, yanking it loose. “That was the plan all along anyway, right?” He grinds his hips, still buried inside, and Akechi gasps, eyes going wide. “Everything you did—just leading me around by the nose—”

“Like you weren’t the same,” Akechi snaps.

Akira rips Akechi’s tie free of his collar, and shifts his grip on Akechi’s arms back to one wrist in each hand, pressing the thin silk against Akechi’s skin and squeezing hard.

Throat bobbing as he swallows, Akechi digs his heels into the small of Akira’s back and Akira feels Akechi’s bare thighs tighten briefly around his waist.

“What do I have to do—” Akira seethes, looping the tie around Akechi’s wrists and winding it several times, “—to get it through your head that I’m not against you?”

“This certainly isn’t helping!” Akechi struggles against the restraint, but Akira quickly ties it off, leaving his wrists bound together.

“You never _listen_ —” Akira shoves forward again as punctuation, jolting Akechi on the table and drawing a low moan out of his mouth, “—you only hear what you want to hear—”

“All people do is lie!” Akechi tosses his head to the side, baring his throat, side-eyeing Akira furiously.

“So that makes it okay for you to lie too?” Akira pulls back, almost all the way out, before slamming back in, and Akechi clenches around him with a shredded groan.

“You’re in no position to judge me—” Akechi’s chest heaves, skin flushed and shining with sweat as Akira sets a punishing pace, “—like you haven’t been lying—to everyone—”

“I never wanted to deceive you—”

“Liar!”

Akira hooks his hands around Akechi’s hips and drags him completely onto his cock, making Akechi throw his head back, spine arching. “Why do you have to be so difficult?” Akira damands, frustration sending needles up his spine.

“Why do you have to act like you know everything?” Akechi bites back. “I don’t need anyone’s help—least of all yours!”

Hitching one of Akechi’s legs over his shoulder, Akira drives forward viciously, earning a choked shriek. “I never wanted to use you—” Akira’s throat constricts, voice catching, “—I—I just wanted—”

“What?” Akechi snaps.

When Akira’s words die in his panting mouth, Akechi reaches up with his bound hands and grabs him by the lapels, yanking him forward as his pace stutters.

“What did you want?” Flushed and breathing hard, Akechi lifts his head to glare at Akira. His eyes flash in the shaking lamplight, pupils nearly swallowing the amber rings of his irises, and Akira can’t look away.

Like he’s caught in a tidal undertow, Akira falls forward, before Akechi can react, and crashes their mouths together.

Akechi goes rigid, fingers twitching against Akira’s chest, and Akira presses deeper, snaking his tongue past Akechi’s teeth as he rolls his hips deliberately. Then Akechi growls low in his throat and hauls Akira closer, biting savagely at his lips.

Shoving Akechi further up on the table, Akira climbs up after him, barely pulling out before slamming back home. The heat thundering through him burns brighter, a solar flare scorching through his muscles, spurring his hips faster. Akechi rocks back against him, matching his rhythm, moaning brokenly into Akira’s mouth.

Keeping one hand under Akechi’s thigh to hold him open, Akira plunges his other hand into Akechi’s hair, fisting the disordered locks and tugging to angle Akechi’s head and deepen the kiss. Beneath them, the table creaks, swaying slightly with their movement. Akechi’s hands, trapped between their chests, claw up Akira’s neck to grab his face.

“You think—” Akechi gasps, breaking away even as his body rocks with Akira’s increasing thrusts, “—that this—this proves anything?”

“Shut up.” Akira cuts off whatever retort Akechi’s brewing by licking firmly into his mouth.

He can feel Akechi tensing beneath him, walls spasming as Akira pistons in and out, and when he cants his hips up and grinds with intention, Akechi lets out a ragged whimper, nails digging into Akira’s cheeks. Akira repeats the action, stroking with determination, sweat beading along his brow, and Akechi’s head falls back against the table, his eyelids fluttering. Akira latches onto Akechi’s pulse point, licking a wet stripe over the skin, and hooks both hands around Akechi’s waist again for better leverage.

The lamplight jolts with each rock of the table, throwing flickering shadows across Akechi’s face when Akira pulls back to watch him writhe. The sight sets the heat in his gut boiling, nearly tipping him over, but he reigns it back, swallowing hard.

Akechi’s arms drop, bracketing his head, and he moans into his sleeve. The low, chesty sound morphs into a high whine as Akira buries himself to the hilt and grinds his hips, and Akechi grits his teeth, back bowing off the table, legs clamping shut around Akira’s waist, and Akira hisses at the almost unbearable clutch of Akechi’s ass tightening as he comes untouched.

Sucking a desperate breath, Akechi shivers, but Akira doesn’t wait for him to settle, resuming his frantic pace, chasing his searing pleasure in Akechi’s twitching body. Finally, with a last solid thrust, the heat overflows in a crashing, buzzing wave, locking Akira’s muscles and tearing a choked cry out of his mouth. The flood shoves him over an invisible ledge, sending him flying into blind, dizzy release.

* * *

Slowly, Akira’s body catalogues tether points. Goro’s chest rising and falling unevenly against his, the warm crook of Goro’s neck where Akira’s face landed, the weight of Akechi’s bound arms resting on his back, shaking hands rubbing restlessly, the painful press of the tabletop against his knees—

Breathing in to settle the electricity still skittering through him, Akira pushes himself up, gazing down at his boyfriend. Goro’s eyes are closed, and Akira can just make out the glisten of tear tracks tracing from the corners, into his hair. He leans back down to press his lips gently to Goro’s temple.

“Goro,” he murmurs, voice hoarse. “Goro, Goro—” Releasing his grip on Goro’s waist, Akira trails one hand up to cradle Goro’s face. “I’m here.”

Goro takes a shuddering breath, exhaling roughly, and his hands curl into the fabric of Akira’s jacket.

“It’s alright,” Akira soothes. “Don’t move. I’ve got you.”

As carefully as possible, Akira lifts himself up and pulls out, wincing at the slide against his overstimulated cock. Goro hisses in discomfort. Stiffly, Akira lowers himself to the ground and tucks himself back in before leaning over and gathering his dazed boyfriend against his chest with one arm. With the other, he hitches one of Goro’s dangling legs around his hips. “Hang on to me.”

When he feels Goro’s grip tighten, Akira gently lifts his boyfriend off the table. It’s not effortless; Goro is the same height and corded with lean muscle from climbing and biking, but Akira takes pride in the fact that he can still carry Goro around, particularly in situations like this.

Keeping his steps even, Akira maneuvers them over to the bed and, when he feels his legs hit the mattress, sinks down, holding Goro steady. “Okay, honey,” he says softly, loosening his grip a little once Goro is settled in his lap. “Arms.”

Still silent, Goro brings his arms over Akira’s head and Akira grasps his wrists gingerly. This isn’t really how they expected this aftercare to go, but Akira is nothing if not adaptive, and as he undoes the simple knot in the striped tie, he peers intently at Goro’s face. His eyes are open now, half-mast and blank, and, as Akira watches, another tear slips down Goro’s cheek.

“Hey—” Akira sets the tie aside and takes Goro’s face in both hands, sweeping the droplet away. “It’s alright. I’ve got you. Can you talk to me?”

Jerkily, Goro shakes his head, hands falling limp between them.

“Okay.” Akira pulls Goro against him, tucking Goro’s face against his neck and wrapping his arms securely around his back. “Okay.”

Goro doesn’t often crash after scenes, even the really intense ones. There’s always a physical reset that can sometimes take a while, but Akira is used to being the emotional one. When Goro does go under, it’s like this: quiet and vacant.

Akira bites his lip, hooking his chin over Goro’s shoulder. He really hopes their impromptu plot twist didn’t go too far.

When they first started getting into more realistic roleplay, Akira admittedly entertained the idea of recreating their ill-fated encounter in the interrogation room four years ago, but he dismissed it initially, worried it might be too raw. Even after all this time, Akira doesn’t like to think about it, about how if Makoto hadn’t convinced her sister to swap the bullets in Goro’s gun for blanks, he would be dead and all of his friends, Goro included, would have been murdered at the hands of Shido. Or about how, even with the concussive pop of the shot still ringing in his head while he played possum on the table, Akira could distinctly make out the sounds of Goro backing into the wall and sliding to the floor, breathing fast and shallow.

At the time, Akira was too full of hurt and anger to feel much else, but as events wore on, the pain dulled enough for him to recognize the intensity of his feelings was due to heartbreak. Unfortunately, he didn’t reach this epiphany until he was watching Goro get shot with a real bullet by his father on a sinking, half-exploded yacht. And he carried that grief, like a stone in his chest, all through their desperate search for a body, until he got the call from Maruki—

Akira squeezes his eyes shut before the memories can overwhelm him and focuses on smoothing his hand up and down his boyfriend’s back.

“Sojiro and I argued about the roof tiles again,” he starts softly. “He wants to hire someone to fix them, but I still think it would be faster to do them myself. He made some excuse about craftsmanship or something, but I think he’s just worried about me being up there—”

As the mundane story rambles on, Akira feels Goro lean more and more of his weight against him, tattered breathing evening out until his ribs are expanding steadily, the tight catch gone from his chest. When Goro tries to lift his head off Akira’s shoulder, Akira trails off and moves his hands to cradle his boyfriend’s face, meeting his hazy expression with searching eyes.

“Goro?”

Goro hums, raising his hands to grasp Akira’s wrists. His fingers hit the hard metal of the cuffs, still locked around Akira’s wrists like ugly bracelets, and Goro blinks down at them. “Oh. Shit.”

“Don’t worry about those,” Akira says quickly, but Goro’s fingertips find the angry red lines left by the cuffs digging into his skin, and he winces involuntarily.

Goro’s eyes widen, alacrity sparking in his gaze. “Sorry—hang on—” he moves to get off Akira’s lap but Akira grabs at him to keep him still.

“No, wait—”

“The key is in my pants pocket—”

“I know, Goro, just—hold on—”

“Akira, stop, I—” Gritting his teeth, Goro puts a hand over his own eyes, shielding them from Akira’s sight, or maybe blocking Akira from his. “I’m supposed to be—I have to take care of you, so—”

“Goro—” Akira sways forward, nosing at his boyfriend’s jaw. “It’s okay.”

“It’s _not_ ,” Goro insists. “This is pathetic—I shouldn’t be—”

Akira presses his forehead to Goro’s temple. “It’s okay,” he whispers. This is always how it goes. When Akira spirals, Goro is always there, judgement free, but when it comes to his own emotions—nothing Akira can say will really make it better, so he just wraps his arms around Goro again and squeezes until Goro’s trembling subsides.

After a moment, Goro lets out a heavy sigh. “Alright, you can let go of me now.”

“Hm.” Akira pulls back enough to see that Goro’s expression is indeed clearer, though his eyes are still bloodshot, his mouth turned down. “You sure?”

“Yes, I’m—” Goro inhales deeply, “—I’m done.”

Reluctantly, Akira allows Goro to slide off his lap, bracing his unsteady legs with two hands on his hips. Goro grimaces, fingers fumbling at his collar, and he pops the top two buttons, plucking at the fabric to cool himself as he moves away.

“—too hot for this—” Akira hears him mutter.

He doesn’t respond, watching Goro limp over to the table, the sturdiest one Akira could find at the consignment shop, and rifle through his discarded clothes. After a second, he produces a small key and returns to the bed, kneeling rigidly in front of Akira, avoiding his eyes.

Akira presents his wrists and Goro gingerly releases the metal rings, setting them aside and rubbing his thumbs over the bruises starting to form when Akira yanked so theatrically against his restraints. Finally, he glances up at Akira, meeting his gaze in the dim light.

“I can’t believe you broke those.”

Akira chuckles gruffly. “Don’t know my own strength, I guess.” The handcuffs were designed for roleplay anyway, so Akira doesn’t feel too smug about busting them.

Brows knitting, Goro reaches up to trace his fingers along Akira’s lips. “I didn’t damage anything in there, did I?” he asks.

“Of course not,” Akira says against Goro’s fingertips. “Everything was fine.”

Goro hums before rising again, still holding Akira’s hand. “Let’s go wash up.”

He’s quiet in the shower and Akira keeps a close eye on him, unease mounting in his chest. When Goro turns around to switch the water off, Akira can’t stop himself from staring at the puckered scar on his back.

Back in the room, Akira dresses quickly and starts cleaning up, insisting that Goro lie down and let him handle it. Their clothes, thrifted approximates of their old uniforms, go into the laundry, and Akira retrieves the model gun from the floor and stashes it in his desk drawer. He shoves the table against the wall and replaces the lamp where it belongs beside the bed. When he looks back, Goro is dressed in sweats and a t-shirt, sitting on the foot of the bed and gazing out the window. At this angle, Akira can only see part of his face, dyed bone white in the stark glow of the moon, while the lamplight gilds his drying hair gold.

Heart fluttering, Akira grabs the two waiting water bottles and lowers himself cautiously beside his boyfriend. He flips the cap on one and passes it over. Goro accepts it without looking.

For a moment, the only sound in the room is the soft whisper of Goro’s breathing and Akira sipping to soothe the scratch starting up in his throat. Akira feels the silence stretch between them, shivering with something that curls uncomfortably in his gut.

Just as his mouth falls open to say something, anything, Goro shifts minutely beside him.

“I’m sorry I shot you.”

Akira blinks and glances over to see Goro now staring down at his lap, fingers twisting together, water bottle abandoned on the windowsill. A rasping chuckle escapes him and Goro shoots him an incredulous look, which quickly morphs into irritation as more laughter punches out of Akira’s chest. He can’t help it, borderline hysteria bubbling out of his mouth in the form of uncontrollable giggling. Akira has to set the water bottle aside to keep from dropping it as the fit wracks through him.

Goro shoves himself to his feet, scowling, and Akira reaches for him, hardly able to speak through the laughter, “No, wait—”

“If this is so funny to you—”

“It’s not, it’s—” Shoulders shaking, Akira pulls Goro back down, on the mattress between his legs this time, and, despite his annoyed expression, Goro goes willingly, crossing his arms belligerently when Akira folds around him. “It’s not funny—” Akira giggles, “—I’m not—laughing at you—I just—” he dissolves again, burying his face in Goro’s shoulder.

He can’t really explain where the laughter is coming from. Maybe an endorphin crash, or maybe the situation finally sank in, or maybe it was the absurdity of Goro apologizing for shooting him when a) that happened four years ago, b) he wasn’t actually shot, and c) they’re already been through the multiple rounds of apologies something like that warrants. The emotions swirling through him feel more manic than anything else, but he doesn’t know how to communicate that to his understandably miffed boyfriend.

Fortunately, after a few beats of helpless giggling, Goro’s tense frame relaxes somewhat in Akira’s hold and he pats at Akira’s arms.

“It’s alright,” Goro murmurs, paradoxically soothing.

Akira furrows his brows. He doesn’t need reassurance. He’s fine. This whole thing is just so—it’s just—

“Akira, it’s okay.”

The fabric of Goro’s shirt beneath Akira’s cheek is wet.

“Shhh. I’m right here. You don’t have to hold so tight.”

“But—I—” Akira gasps, chest aching, arms straining as he realizes he’s nearly crushing Goro against his chest.

Goro squirms, eliciting a spike of panic that fades when he merely twists around to get his own arms around Akira. “I’m so sorry,” he whispers, carding his fingers through Akira’s hair. “I should have made us stop.”

Akira sucks in a halting breath, the laughter disintegrating into breathless hiccups that shake through them both. “No, I—I should have—”

“I was in charge, it was my responsibility—”

“We both wanted it—” Akira rocks slightly from side to side, the cold tightness in his gut easing as the possessing laughter finally loosens its grip, leaving him panting. “But maybe going off script was kind of—”

“Stupid.”

“We’ll just...have to remember for next time.” Akira sniffles, laying his head on Goro’s shoulder as exhaustion washes over him. “I did have a good time, though,” he says quietly, because he did. At no point did he feel like stopping, even if, intellectually, he should have.

“Me too.” Goro slides a warm hand down to cup the back of Akira’s neck. “I trust you, Akira.”

“I trust you too, Goro. And I love you.”

“Yes, I gathered that.” Goro pulls back, taking Akira’s face gently and pressing a kiss to the corner of Akira’s mouth. “I’m very glad I didn’t kill you four years ago,” he says softly.

Heart rate calming, Akira regards Goro through half-lidded eyes. “Me too.”

Sighing, Goro swipes at the tear tracks tracing down Akira’s cheeks. “Let’s do therapy tomorrow, okay? I’m tired.”

“You’re so smart.”

“I know.”

With Goro’s urging, Akira shuffles under the covers, and, when Goro joins him after flicking the light off, plasters himself against his boyfriend’s side, laying his head on Goro’s chest.

The weight of what happened four years ago may never go away completely, but when Goro’s hand finds his hair in the dark, Akira knows beyond all doubt that he doesn’t have to bear it alone.

**Author's Note:**

> this is a noncon roleplay played straight where Goro and Akira are recreating the infamous interrogation room scene. even though the circumstances are slightly changed for this au, Goro is still "threatening" Akira's life. Akira is handcuffed to a chair and Goro has a "gun." (sidenote, even though they're adults, they're roleplaying as their teenage selves and wearing clothes similar to their uniforms.) Goro uses his position to force Akira to first engage in gunplay and then suck him off, after which he rides Akira, who is immobile. Akira "experiences" feelings of rage, fear, and shame throughout. partway through the act, Akira's handcuffs break and, after a quick check-in, they decide to keep going and the power dynamics flip. Akira binds Goro's wrists with his tie and they finish together. afterward, Goro crashes almost immediately and Akira comforts him, then Akira has a belated reaction and they decide together that continuing the scene wasn't a great idea. since they both filled both roles, the emotional crash is a little confusing and very wrapped up in memories of the emotions they felt during the actual event and what followed. they assert their trust in each other and go to sleep.
> 
> in real BDSM, or sex in general, but particularly sex that involves so much planning and trust, if something goes wrong or something unexpected happens, you should always stop completely and reassess. it can be hard to make a clear judgement in the moment, but it's always better to be safe. ALWAYS.
> 
> see if you can pinpoint the two places Goro and Akira checked in with each other during the actual roleplay and lmk in the comments. i wanna see if i was too subtle for people lmao
> 
> for questions, please visit my [tumblr](https://mistresseast.tumblr.com/) or [twitter](https://twitter.com/MistressEast)


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